Well, Robert Bly is dead. I can't say he has been my favorite poet but he is certainly one of them. I've read and appreciated him for decades but I don't think his forms show up in my poems except in our shared sense of the poem as a Polaroid of a particular moment. So in that light, here is probably my favorite Bly poem.
DRIVING TO TOWN LATE TO MAIL A LETTER
It is a cold and snowy night. The main street is deserted.
The only things moving are swirls of snow.
As I lift the mailbox door, I feel its cold iron.
There is a privacy I love in this snowy night.
Driving around, I will waste more time.
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